


Mass Samwell

by iheartvolume



Category: Bull Durham (1988), Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, That's it that's the plot, bitty is way older, bull durham, but its a hockey team, jack and bitty are the same age, kent is a freshly drafted smol adult, with the cast of check please
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-26 03:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18275303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iheartvolume/pseuds/iheartvolume
Summary: Eric "Bitty" Bittle believes in hockey the way some people believe in God. A long-running and passionate fan of the Samwell Wellies minor league hockey team, Bitty picks one hockey player at the beginning of each season, a sort of "project," who he hooks up with while trying to impart all the hockey and life wisdom he has to share.This system has worked pretty well for Bitty for several seasons now- but this season, everything gets turned on its head. The arrival of highly drafted, highly immature hotshot rookie Kent Parson is followed immediately by the arrival of the much older, freshly-traded veteran Jack Zimmermann who is brought in to "mature the kid."What follows are the craziest 82 games the Samwell Wellies and Bitty himself have ever seen. But, as Bitty always says, "It's a long season and you gotta trust it."Based very, very strongly off of "Bull Durham," which is IMHO one of the most underrated sports movies ever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so, I love Bull Durham. One of my favorite sports movies. And I love Check, Please!. My favorite webcomic. So they had a baby in my brain and now I'm writing it. Plan to see many of Kevin Costner's delightfully witty lines making an appearance.
> 
> To make this work (because I went through a lot of possible characters for the rookie, but really it could never be anyone but Parse), I de-aged Parse by a few decades compared to Bitty and Jack. We're also looking at a Bitty and Jack who are much older and more mature. Not sure how much of Jack's backstory I'll ultimately write in, but after the overdose he never quite recovered his prowess and spent the majority of his career in the AHL. Bitty went to Samwell University and majored in American Studies with a Minor in English, and he loved Samwell so much he hung around after graduation. The Samwell Wellies are an AHL minor-league affiliate of the Las Vegas Aces. Your usual cast of SMH characters will be present.

_I believe in the church of hockey. I’ve tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones. I’ve worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Queen Bey._

_I know things._

_For instance, there are three periods in hockey, and three days before the miracle of the resurrection. When I learned that, I gave Jesus a chance. But, it just didn’t work out between us. The Lord laid too much guilt on me._

_I prefer metaphysics to theology. You see, there’s no guilt in hockey, and it’s never boring, which makes it like sex._

_There’s never been a hockey player who slept with me who didn’t have the best year of his career. Making love is like shooting a puck at the net. You just gotta relax and concentrate. Besides, I’d never sleep with a player averaging under 30 points a season, unless he was a good enforcer or a strong playmaker up the middle._

_You see, there’s a certain amount of life wisdom I give these boys. I can expand their minds. Sometimes when I’ve got a hockey player alone I’ll just play Lemonade or Sasha Fierce for him. And the boys are so sweet, they always stay and listen._

_‘Course, a guy will listen to anything if he thinks it’s foreplay._

_I make them feel confident, and they make me feel safe- and pretty._

_Of course, what I give them lasts a lifetime. What they give me lasts 82 games. Sometimes it seems like a bad trade, but bad trades are part of hockey. Who can forget Wayne Gretzky for Jimmy Carson and Martin Gelinas, for god’s sake?_

_It’s a long season, and you gotta trust it._

_I’ve tried ‘em all, I really have. And the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in and day out, is the church of hockey._

Bitty gave himself a last once-over in the mirror, adjusting the collar of his freshly-pressed light blue button-down shirt to sit nicely over his favorite maroon bow tie, and running a hand over his slicked blonde hair to fix any last-minute strays. Satisfied with his appearance, he spritzed on a touch of cologne before tossing a light “Samwell Wellies” jacket and making his way out the door.

Fall was firmly in the air, no longer content to stir sleepily and peek out from behind the last burning remnants of summer. As if in deference to its fiery predecessor, fall’s trees were alight in brilliant reds and oranges and yellows, a flaming vision now realized. 

Bitty shivered slightly from the crisp chill in the air and pulled his jacket slightly tighter around himself. Living in Samwell for so many years had done nothing for Bitty’s aversion to the winter weather soon to descend upon the sleepy northeastern town. It was ironic, really, for someone who spent so much of his time surrounded by ice to be so cold-averse, but nonetheless, here he was. It brought to mind one of those old sayings about taking the boy out of the south, but never the south out of the boy. Bitty’s bright but ever-present drawl alone was a testament to that. 

Still, the brisk night air was invigorating, and nothing could dampen Bitty’s spirits, sky-high with excitement at the start of another hockey season. 

Hockey truly was Bitty’s religion, and the Samwell Wellies were Bitty’s church. To the casual hockey fan, Bitty’s intense devotion to a minor-league AHL team few outside the area would ever hear of might sound absurd, but Bitty had been with this team for years, through feast and famine (and mostly the latter). Everyone down at the modest Wells Fargo Arena knew Bitty. He’d charmed his way in with a steady supply of pies, and was kept around for his shrewd hockey sense. When he gave advice on a defensive pairing or noted a different way to polish up a backshot, coaches and players listened. 

Once upon a time, Bitty had dreams of playing professional hockey himself, but his noticeably small stature, a deep-rooted fear of taking a check, and an unfortunate knee injury cut his own dreams short. Once upon a time, Bitty might have felt bitter about losing out on his own opportunity. But now, in this time, Bitty was happy to be here to support these boys. And every season, without fail, these boys supported him.

Bitty loved living close enough to the arena to walk, despite how he felt about the temperature. Bitty’s neighborhood was idyllic and gorgeous, and he loved everything about strolling past the cute little bungalow houses and the quaint, artsy shops. And besides, every player had their own pre-game superstitions, rituals and routines, and Bitty was no different.

“Hey, Lardo!”

“‘Sup, Bits?” Bitty’s favorite barista and close friend greeted him with a warm grin as he entered The Coffee Haus, sporting a Wellies bandana tied around her neck. 

Lardo had been a Samwell fixture for several years, and while her work schedule prevented her from going to the games as often as Bitty, she’d met and befriended many of the guys on the hockey team anyway. It helped that Lardo was a bro and could drink the whole team under the table like a goldfish in water. For some reason, the guys all seemed to enjoy losing to her at flip cup.

“Just poppin’ by for my usual, then headin’ on down to the rink for all the opening night stuff,” Bitty grinned.

Lardo grinned back. “Wish I could join you. One pumpkin spice latte, coming right up.”

“It really is too bad,” Bitty agreed. “Gonna come out after the game tonight?” 

“Might make it down after I close. Shitty said the Duke?”

“Ohhhh, so you’ve been textin’ Shitty?” Bitty leaned in with a predatory grin. Lardo only shrugged, though Bitty could swear the faintest blush colored her cheeks. 

Shitty was one of the Wellie’s newer players, having joined the team last season after a trade. He and Lardo quickly took to one another, and Bitty was sure it wouldn’t be long before they were exclusive. Then again, it was hard to tell with both of them. Unfortunately, it seemed that Bitty’s raised eyebrow couldn’t pull enough weight to get Lardo to divulge any further deets. 

“Yeah, the Duke,” he answered finally, accepting this temporary defeat with grace. Bitty knew that Lardo knew better than to think they were done talking about this, though. 

He and Lardo chatted brightly about the start of the season, the new players on the roster, and what sort of chances they thought the team had in the quest for the Calder Cup, the Stanley Cup’s minor league equivalent. Bitty liked to think of himself as an optimistic realist. He wasn’t blind, he knew what the team’s record had looked like these past few seasons, but today was day one. Today, anything was possible. 

Before long, Bitty was accepting a steaming hot cup from Lardo with a friendly wave goodbye, and continuing his stroll to the rink.

Somehow, something felt different about this season. Nothing in particular, nothing Bitty could put his finger on, but the air contained whispers of something. It was small-town Massachussetts, of course there had always been stories and rumors of witches from hundreds of years ago whose magic still lingered behind, but the Bitty’s brief Wiccan experience had kinda removed all the mysticism from the whole magick thing.

No church for Bitty but the church of hockey.

The Wells Fargo Arena loomed in front of him now, and Bitty passed easily through its gates after holding up his phone screen for a quick scan of his season ticket. As he moved with and through the throngs of fans, he kept an idle eye out for Nursey, the young guy Bitty had unofficially adopted as a sort of younger brother, who sat next to him at the games. 

In any other arena, Nursey would be written off as a particularly aggressive puck bunny, the way he threw himself at any guy on the team who seemed even remotely interested. Well, in any other arena, if Bitty was honest, Nursey would likely get the shit beat out of him, even if Nursey’s moms were rich, and even if they had donated a huge chunk of money to finance the new jumbotron hanging proudly in the center of the rink.

Bitty wasn’t naive about the culture of hockey and professional sports in general, but Samwell was an unusual town. The unofficial town motto, “1 in 4, maybe more,” alluded to the massive LGBTQ+ population that called the town home. The Pride festival each June was always one hell of a party. And even though all of the guys on the hockey team came from other places, hadn’t grown up here, they learned the score pretty quickly. Homophobia and transphobia weren’t tolerated. 

The cynical side of Bitty realized a few seasons back that this was an economic decision more than a moral one on the part of the Wellies organization- insulting a whole demographic of people who made up a huge percentage of ticket and merch sales was probably not a winning financial strategy. But the team had also adopted the inclusive atmosphere in their own way, and there were a variety of Pride-themed events sprinkled throughout the season. 

Heading toward his seat a few rows behind the player benches, Bitty stopped to say hello and chat warmly with a few of the wives and girlfriends he recognized in the family section, introducing himself to the ones he didn’t recognize. Being a fixture of Samwell and of the team made Bitty a useful resource when freshly-traded players brought their often very young families in tow. 

He had yet to see Nursey anywhere, which made Bitty sigh. Nursey had a bad habit of winding up in places he shouldn’t when he did his thinking with his dick instead of his brain, which was just about always. 

Bitty settled in to his usual spot, watching as the boys skated their early warmups. There were a handful of new players this year, young prospects, draft picks. Bitty had been doing his research, eyeballing results from pre-season games and unofficial scrimmages, narrowing down his own list of ‘prospects.’ For the first few games of the season Bitty watched, and listened, and narrowed his list further until he had his top one or two guys. 

There were some promising names thus far, but the big one Bitty had his eye on was a recent acquisition from the June draft, an 18-year-old kid named Kent Parson who went high in the first round to the Las Vegas Aces but apparently wasn’t quite ready for the big time just yet. According to his records from Juniors, Kent had been an unstoppable offensive force, shattering all sorts of records previously held by names that were now permanently memorialized in the Hockey Hall of Fame. 

Bitty knew little else about him; kids fresh out of Juniors weren’t yet famous enough to warrant their own Wikipedia pages, even if they went high in the first round of the draft. But he’d seen a couple interviews, quick post-game shots from Juniors and a handful of background pieces leading up to the draft, and it was painstakingly, cringe-worthily clear to Bitty why this kid might need a bit more time to mature before the Show. 

But still, he was a big name, and the Las Vegas Aces hadn’t had too many of those as a young expansion team, which meant Samwell hadn’t had many of them, either. 

A few other new names this year, and Bitty had done his due diligence- he was nothing if not thorough- but no one else had caught his eye yet. Low-level trades, low-level draft picks, guys who hadn’t developed into themselves enough to be worth a second glance, and that handful who would never progress their careers past the minors. Bitty tried to take the time to see the best in every player, to see the potential, but he knew the reality as well as anyone. Had he not blown out his knee, he likely would’ve been one of those guys. Some days he still can’t decide whether that stunted career trajectory would’ve been worth it.

In front of him, Bitty sees the two Wellies coaches, Hall and Murray, gesturing to each other wildly before turning to talk to the two alternate captains, Holster and Ransom, who shrug in unison. It’s then Bitty realizes someone is noticeably missing from the lineup- Kent Parson wasn’t on the ice for warmups. Hall, the head coach, takes off stomping back down the the tunnel toward the locker room. 

As much as Bitty hopes he’s wrong, he suspects Parson’s absence and Nursey’s absence are connected, and probably in the biblical sense. Bitty allows himself another sigh at Nursey’s outrageous behavior. 

A fresh start to a new season, and it already looks to be an interesting one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent Parson's professional debut.

“Where’s Parson?” Coach Mike Hall scanned the line of guys on the bench again, but the patch of blonde hair still didn’t magically appear among them.

“Dunno,” his assistant coach, Steve Murray, answered vaguely. His attention was focused out on the ice where performer Alexei “Mashed Taters” Mashkov was providing pre-game entertainment with a variety of silly, slapstick skating tricks. Murray laughed raucously as the man dove into an over-the-top choreographed fall. 

Hall sighed and turned to the two alternate captains who had just taken their seats on the bench.

“Ransom, Holster, you guys seen Parson?” They both shrugged in unison. They did everything in unison. Hall found it highly uncanny, but he knew better than to say anything, especially when it led to such strong on-ice chemistry.

“Nope.” Ransom popped the ‘p.’ 

“Last I saw him was in the locker room,” Holster supplied.

Murray’s firm attention on the Mashed Taters performance suggested he wouldn’t be much help, so Hall grumbled some obscenities under his breath and took off down the tunnel to the locker rooms.

Coach Hall has been in this business a long time. Too long, maybe. And has he ever seen some shit. 

So walking in on the league’s hot new prospect loudly screwing someone up against a bench in one of the locker room showers doesn’t even break the top 10, maybe even top 20 all-time list of the weird shit Hall’s had to deal with as the head coach of a minor league hockey team. More than anything, he’s just annoyed as hell. 

“Parson! Game starts in five minutes! Why aren’t you warmed up?”

Finally noticing his coach, Parson hurriedly pulls his pants up, but he’s grinning broadly, not remotely embarrassed at being caught. Ah, to be young and stupid again. 

“I am warmed up.” Parson chuckles at the innuendo. 

“Jesus, Kent, this is your professional debut tonight! A million guys would give their left nut to be where you are. And you’re leaving your slapshot in the locker room for some piece of ass!” 

“Hall!” Nursey’s head suddenly poked out over the edge of the shower stall, voice indignant. “It is _me_ , I am not some quote- _piece of ass_ -unquote.”

Hall rolled his eyes, but he knew as well as anyone just how much money Nursey’s parents had donated to the stadium, and he was smart enough to watch his tone. 

“Oh, uh, Nursey. Didn’t see you there. Uh, don’t take this the wrong way, but if I catch you in here again, you’re banned from the arena.”

“You can’t ban me,” Nursey sing-songed. “My moms donated that scoreboard, and if you ban me, they just might take that scoreboard away.”

“Well, what the hell do we need a scoreboard for?” Hall shot back. “We haven't scored a single goal all preseason!”

He turned his attention back to Parson. “Now, you get your ass out there!” Grumbling to himself, Hall headed back toward the ice.

“Hey boss, I got a question,” Parson called from behind him.

“What?” Hall bit out, turning back.

“Do you think I need a nickname? I think I need a nickname. We were talking about it,” Kent gestured to Nursey, “and all that great ones have nicknames. Like ‘The Great One,’ ‘Bad Bob,’ what’s the one you were thinking?” 

“Pokey,” Nursey supplied.

“Yeah, what do you think of Pokey?” Kent asked Hall.

Hall stood there for a few seconds, questioning every career decision he’d ever made that had led him to this point. Unable to formulate a polite response for the present company, he finally growled, “You’ve got five minutes,” before stomping off again. His curses could be heard echoing down the tunnel.

_“Damn son of a motherfucking bitch ass shithead!”_

Now that their audience was gone, Parson turned back to Nursey, pulling his pants down once again and lining up to reenter the attractive man beneath him.

“Kent,” Nursey squealed, though he was giggling and spreading his legs. “You got a game to play!”

Kent shrugged with one shoulder. “I got five minutes.”

The room was soon filled again with the sound of moans as Kent bucked up into Nursey’s tight, wet heat.

Approximately four-and-a-half minutes later, Kent rushed down the tunnel toward the line of his teammates about to make their way down on the ice, fumbling with his pants and shoving his dick back into his cup as he ran. He pulled up to the end of the line, only to be met with Hall and Murray’s highly unimpressed faces.

“What? I’m there. I’m ready,” Kent insisted, shrugging his shoulders a little. They said nothing, their stares boring into him. 

“Let’s give it up for Alexei ‘Mashed Taters’ Mashkov, the Clown Prince of hockey! And now, the Greatest Show on Ice, your own Samwell Wellies!” 

Up in the stands, Nursey was facing similar consternation as he scurried down the steps to his seat next to Bitty, finishing up the last couple buttons on his own shirt.

“Nursey,” Bitty greeted without looking up, “you gotta stay out of the locker room, you’re gonna get everybody in trouble.”

“I got lured,” Nursey whined.

“No, you did not get lured, you are too strong and powerful for that. Now say it: ‘I did not get lured, I accept full responsibility for my actions.’” 

Nursey sighed, but dutifully repeated, “I did not get lured, I accept full responsibility for my actions.”

“Good, that’s better,” Bitty insisted brightly. 

Up in the booth, the longtime Wellies TV caster, Sebastien “Marty” St. Martin, and his longtime buddy and color-commentator, Randall “Thirdy” Robinson, were busy welcoming fans back for another season of Wellies hockey. 

“Tonight marks not only the start of another Wellies season, but the professional debut of fairly young skater Kent Parson,” Thirdy informed the viewers.

“Word on the street is, guy’s got an NHL slapshot, but sometimes has problems with his accuracy and control.”

The Wellies lined up with the IceHogs, tonight’s opponents, for the center-ice face off. The crowd cheered as Shitty won the draw and the Wellies took possession. Shitty fired the puck up ice to Parson in the offensive zone, and Parse settled it against his stick, preparing to take his first career shot on goal. He lined up, fired, and-

*CRASH*

The window in a fortunately empty club box shattered as the puck went flying at a high velocity through the air, nowhere near the net. Kent winced, holding up his gloves apologetically to the refs.

After a moment of stunned silence from the press box, Marty and Thirdy remembered they were live. 

“Aaaand the puck deflects up and out of play-” 

“Way, way out of play,” Thirdy interjected.

“-with 19:34 left to play in the first period. Faceoff will stay in the IceHogs zone to the left of the goal.” 

“Damn,” Bitty murmured, suitably impressed with the power behind the shot. He marked some notes on a paper in front of him.

Shitty took the faceoff again, passing once more to Parson, who fired a hefty shot that deflected off the crossbar and somehow shot into the crowd, knocking down the Samwell Wellies mascot.

“Yikes, brah,” Shitty called to Parson, who winced.

Thirdy and Marty looked at each other with wide eyes.

A line change took Kent from the ice, and Bitty took a moment to jot down more notes.

“So,” Bitty began, turning to Nursey, “let’s get down to it. How was Kent Parson?”

“Well…” Nursey hesitated, thinking. “He fucks like he shoots, sorta... all over the place.”

The game continued on, and Kent Parson’s performance grew no less wild. But there was no denying, Bitty thought, as he watched another hard shot deflect into the crowd, that this kid had promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know what? I quit. I fucking _quit_.” Jack turned and stormed out of the office, bag swung over one shoulder.

“8-3. It’s something,” Jim Murray chuckled, leaning back in the office chair in Hall’s office. “Two hat tricks in a debut game- new league record. In addition, he hit the sports announcers, the club box window, the Wellies mascot twice- also new league records.”

Hall laughed, resting an elbow on his desk. “But man, this guy’s got some serious shit.” 

Murray nodded his agreement, taking a deep swig from his beer, turning his head as Hall’s office door swung open.

A hulking man with dark hair and bright, blue eyes, not much younger-looking than Hall or Murray themselves, stepped into the office with a duffle bag swung over one shoulder.

“Who are you? Who’s he?” Murray turned to Hall, bewildered.

“I’m the player to be named later,” the dark-haired man commented wryly. 

“Jack Zimmermann, I’m Coach Hall. Nice to meet you,” Hall greeted, shaking the man’s hand. 

“And you, Jim Murray, should recognize me,” Jack grinned, “‘cause five years ago you were in net for the Comets and I was skating second line for Marlies, and we were tied in overtime 3-3 for the playoff wildcard spot, and I tattooed that puck right through your five-hole, beat you 4-3.”

“Oh yeah, I remember that, I went down too late with my blocker,” Murray laughed. “Damn, Jack, how’re you doing?”

“I’m too old for this shit. Why was I traded back to a US team?” Jack raised an eyebrow, all pretense of humor suddenly gone.

“Because of Kent V. Parson,” Hall replied. “Big club’s got a million dollars in him. He’s got a $10 mil slapshot and a five-cent head.” Murray chuckled at Hall’s analogy.

“We want you to mature the kid. Room with him on the road. Stay on his case all year. He’s gonna go all the way.”

“Yeah?” Jack questioned, not bothering to keep the bitterness from his tone. “And where can I go?”

“Well, you can keep getting on that ice every day and keep getting paid to do it,” Hall replied pointedly. “Beats the hell out of working at Best Buy.”

“Ugh, Best Buy _sucks_ , Jack. I worked there once. Sold iPhones to snobby teenagers. Nasty work. Nasty.” Murray shudders, clearly reliving some unpleasant memories.

“Anyway, Jack, this is a chance to play every day,” Hall reminded him.  
“You don’t want a player, you want a stable pony,” Jack bit back. “My Marlies contract gets bought out so I can come hold some flavor-of-the-month’s dick in the Atlantic league?” Jack runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Well fuck this _fucking game_.”

Jack stood there for a moment, shaking in frustration and more than a little humiliation.

“You know what? I quit. I fucking _quit_.” Jack turned and stormed out of the office, bag swung over one shoulder. Hall and Murray sat silently, waiting.

Jack froze not more than five steps from the office door, realizing that he really had nowhere else to go and no better options banging down his door. Frustrated, he cursed to himself a few times, turned, and walked back to Hall’s office, sticking his head in the door.

“Who do we play tomorrow?” Jack demanded.

“Charlotte Checkers,” Hall replied as Jack turned to leave again. “Shooting drills, 11:30,” Hall called after the retreating form. 

Exhaling loudly, Jack went to dump his gear in his locker, passing Kent Parson who was currently surrounded by a flock of reporters while a trainer massaged his shooting arm.

“So Kent, how does it feel to get your first professional win?” one of the reporters asked, holding a recording device toward Parson’s face.

“It’s fuckin’ awesome, man. Like, a major rush. Like, we just totally rolled up on those IceHog fuckers and smashed some face, man. Yeet.” 

Jack shook his head in disbelief. “This is hopeless,” he commented, more to himself than anyone else. Shitty looked over at him questioningly. “This is utterly fucking hopeless,” Jack repeated, walking away to the sound of Shitty’s boisterous laughter.

“Hey, I’m Shitty, man,” Shitty called, following Jack to his locker space. 

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Um, I’m sure you’re not that bad-” 

Shitty laughed again. “Nah, brah, I mean my name is Shitty. That’s what everyone calls me. Shitty Knight.” Shitty stuck out a hand for Jack to shake. Jack accepted it as his eyes lit up in understanding. 

“Jack Zimmermann.” 

“Nice, brah, welcome to the Wellies. You got a place to stay yet?”

“Just got into town a couple hours ago. I was just gonna find a motel or something for the night and look for a place tomorrow.” 

“Well, you’re in luck. My previous roommate, Johnson, fucked off to the Colorado Eagles. Lucky fucker gets access to legal weed, not that he needs it. So anyway, I find myself with a furnished room available for one gorgeous Canadian beaut of a teammate. It’s a totally ‘swasome Haus,” Shitty grinned at Jack. “If you’re interested,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Consent’s always important, brah.” 

This was probably one of the weirder teammates Jack had encountered in his career, and he only understood about 75% of what the man had just said to him, but for some reason he could already tell he was gonna like this guy.

“Didn’t want to share with Parson?” Jack raised a brow. 

“Brah,” Shitty scoffed. “I wasn’t touching that hot mess with a ten-foot pole. Even I have limits. Besides, Parson is renting some outrageously huge house he found on AirBnB with that gigantor signing bonus.” Shitty and Jack rolled their eyes simultaneously.

“So like, brah, we’re all going out to our post-game spot, the Duke. You should come. Meet some of the guys, get a beer, all that shit. And then I can show you the place, and you can just crash there tonight, even if you don’t wanna stay long-term.”

“Sounds great, man, thanks. I’m sure the room’ll be great.” Shitty gave Jack a warm smile in reply before leaving to finish changing out of his gear.

Jack could feel his shoulders getting looser and more relaxed by the minute. He’d been traded so often and played for so many different teams at this point that the process of integrating himself into a new locker room was more of a formality than anything, and his anxiety had long-since stopped making quite such a big deal out of it all. But, there was still a nagging fear in the back of his mind, every time he moved, that he wouldn’t be welcome in the new locker room, wouldn’t find any friendly faces. 

It was even worse for Jack than the average player, because Jack’s bisexuality was pretty much an open secret around the league at this point, and despite the impressive numbers Jack put up season after season, no matter what team he was on, it wasn’t always enough to overcome some guys’ deeply-ingrained homophobia. 

Fortunately, Jack had also heard through several grapevines that Samwell was unique as far as teams in the league went, both because of the town and the team itself, but those had only ever been rumors. The pride flag hanging inside the arena and the posters in the locker room warning against homophobic and transphobic language had been incredibly pleasant surprises that instantly eased Jack’s worry.

He’d played here, of course, more than a handful of times in his lengthy minor-league career. But Jack never tended to spend too much time making buddies (or enemies) with guys in other teams, preferring to keep to himself, so he didn’t know most of the guys on the team beyond the occasional recognition of a former opponent; no former teammates here. 

The guys in the AHL got younger and younger, from Jack’s perspective, and it was a bit unusual for someone of Jack’s age and experience to still be going at it every day. By this point in life, guys had either made it to the NHL, left to play overseas in leagues that paid more, or accepted fate and retired from hockey altogether. 

No one ever had before, but were someone to ask Jack why he stuck around, he wasn’t entirely sure what his answer would be beyond, “Well, what else would I do?” Jack loved this game, still, with every fiber of his being. From the first time he stepped on the ice at age two, Jack was a hockey player, and he had never once remotely considered doing anything else.

But Jack was starting to feel his age, really feel it, in his bones. Over 20 long years of hard hits and serious physicality had left him physically and emotionally raw.

The AHL had always been a more physical league than the level above it, in part because guys were younger, more hungry, had more to prove. Enforcers and goons and even offensive defensemen trying to get coaches and management upstairs to give them a second look, to take a chance on them on the big team’s roster. Plus, it was more encouraged at this level by organizations and less frowned-on by the refs, because everyone understood that getting bodies into minor-league seats was always going to be a different, more challenging beast than bringing in fans to support big-name stars on NHL teams.

Jack’s 39th birthday had come and gone a few months back, and the slow march toward 40 loomed closer than ever before him. Every check he took shook him harder these days. It was tough to force his body to keep up the speed and stamina he was once able to achieve with relative ease. Hell, in hockey years, Jack was practically a senior citizen, apt to fall into his grave any day now. 

Then there were the constant trades, the inability to ever truly settle anywhere, to have a place to call home- it was beginning to make Jack itch in a way that it never had before. Home was always the ice, for Jack. Picket fences with 2.5 kids were never in the cards, and he’d come to terms with that years ago. The ice was enough. 

But now, lately, home was a question that ached in his heart, late at night. It whispered its presence every time he returned home to an empty bed, every time the whispered rumors of another potential trade found his ears, every time he visited his aging parents during summers off and they watched him with sad eyes when they thought he wasn’t looking. 

He knows his mother and father would have loved grandchildren to spoil, but they stopped pressing long ago. In fact, they never pressed hard on much of anything after Jack’s overdose decades before. When they had very nearly lost their son, and Jack had very nearly lost everything. When Jack had decided that the best way to protect his heart was to give it fully to a sport that had been there for him when it seemed like nothing else had. 

Home was a question to which Jack had no answer. But for now, home could be here, in this place, with this team, for as long as it would have him. And for now, Jack supposed, as he swung his lightened duffle bag over his shoulder and headed for his car, that could be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I actually worked at Best Buy in college and it wasn't all that bad, as far as part-time retail goes. But if you're a hockey player, I can't imagine that would be an enjoyable career shift. *shrugs*
> 
> I've been doing pretty well with consistent updating so far, but no promises that I'll be able to keep the daily schedule now that spring break is coming to an end. Thanks for giving this strange little fic a shot! I'd love to hear what you think about my first foray into this fandom. :)


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